Ellwood didn't ask questions. He didn't look at the condition of Beverley's clearly undrivable car or the lack of blood on Ryan's knee. He limped as quickly as his injured leg would allow straight to Kaleigh.

"Are you okay? Is he hurt?" He knelt down—a movement that cost him visible pain—and checked the boy over.

Kaleigh sniffled, burying her face in his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Ellwood. She just... she stepped on the gas. I thought she was going to kill him."

Ellwood struggled back to his feet, gripping his cane. He turned his head toward Beverley. His eyes were black with hatred.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he roared. "You could have killed him!"

Beverley held up her phone. "I didn't touch him. My car is wrecked—look at it. It won't even start. He threw himself on the ground. It's a setup."

"He's six years old!" Ellwood yelled, pointing a finger at her. "You think a six-year-old fakes getting hit by a car?"

"He does when his mother tells him to," Beverley shot back.

Ryan chose that moment to wail louder. "She hit me! Mommy, she hit me!"

"See?" Ellwood snarled. "You're delusional. First you burn Kaleigh, then you attack me, now you try to run over her son. You're a monster. And you still haven't told me where Aiden is."

Beverley felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. It wasn't worth it. Explaining the truth to a man who was blind by choice was a waste of breath.

"What do you want, Ellwood?" she asked, her voice flat. "Do you want to call the police? Go ahead. Let's check the security cameras."

That gave Kaleigh pause. She looked toward the camera in the corner of the garage. It was pointed the wrong way.

Kaleigh stood up, wiping her eyes. She put on her most sympathetic, sorrowful face. "Ellwood, please. Don't call the police. It's just... she's grieving. She lost Aiden. She's not in her right mind. I forgive her."

It was a masterclass in manipulation. In one breath, she played the saint and condemned Beverley as a crazy, dangerous woman.

Ellwood's face softened as he looked at Kaleigh. Then he turned back to Beverley, his jaw set.

"Apologize," he demanded. "Apologize to Kaleigh and Ryan. Right now."

Beverley stared at him. He was serious. He was standing in a dirty parking garage, defending a woman who had faked an injury, demanding an apology for a crime that hadn't been committed.

A laugh escaped Beverley's lips. It was a cold, hollow sound.

"Never," she said.

Ellwood took a limping step closer, his face inches from hers. "I am not playing games, Beverley. Apologize, or I will ruin your family. And tell me where my son is."

Before Beverley could respond, Kaleigh let out a gasp. She clutched her chest, her face going pale. She started to cough, a hacking, wet sound.

"Ellwood," she wheezed. "My heart... it hurts..."

Ellwood panicked. Despite his injured leg and burned arm, he managed to scoop Kaleigh up, holding her against his chest with visible strain. "I've got you. I've got you, baby."

He glared at Beverley over Kaleigh's head. "You did this. You stressed her out. You'll pay for this."

He limped toward the elevator, carrying Kaleigh. Ryan skipped behind them, his crying stopped instantly.

Beverley watched them go. The elevator doors opened. Ellwood stepped inside, turned with difficulty, and the doors began to close.

A profound sense of clarity washed over her. The fight was over. The hope was gone. The last thread tying her to this nightmare had snapped.

She reached into her pocket. Her phone had 3% battery.

She didn't call a lawyer. She didn't call her parents. She opened the voice recorder app.

She hit record. She walked toward the elevator, stopping just before the doors sealed shut.

"Ellwood," she called out.

Through the narrowing gap, she saw him pause, looking at her with disgust.

Beverley looked straight into his eyes. She held up the phone.

"Ellwood Stevenson," she said, her voice clear and steady, echoing in the empty garage. "I want a divorce."

The doors closed.

The elevator doors slid shut, but the look of shock on Ellwood's face was burned into Beverley's vision.

She lowered her phone and let out a long, shaky breath. It was done. The word was out.

She looked at her wrecked car. Undrivable. She pulled out her phone and called a car service. Twenty minutes later, a black sedan pulled into the garage and took her back to the penthouse.

The apartment was empty. She walked through the silent rooms one last time.

She didn't pack a bag. She didn't need the clothes. She went straight to Aiden's room.

She pulled the suitcase from the closet. She packed his dinosaur. His blanket. His photo album. Every single piece of him that remained.

She left the jewelry box on the dresser. She left the credit cards on the nightstand. She left the Stevenson diamond ring on the kitchen counter.

She picked up her phone and dialed her lawyer.

"It's done," she said, her voice calm. "Send the papers. I'm walking away with nothing."

"I'll have them drafted and couriered to his office within the hour," the lawyer replied.

Beverley hung up. She walked out of the penthouse, pulling the door shut behind her. She didn't look back.

Three hours later, in the top floor of the Stevenson Group tower, Ms. Reed knocked on Ellwood's office door.

"Sir, this was delivered by courier."

She placed a thick manila envelope on his desk.

Ellwood, his leg propped up on a stool, his cane leaning against his chair, ripped it open. He pulled out the stack of papers.

Divorce Settlement Agreement.

He flipped to the last page. Beverley's signature was at the bottom. It was clear. It was sharp. There were no smudges, no hesitations.

She wasn't asking for money. She wasn't asking for the apartment. She was walking away with nothing but her name.

Ellwood gripped the paper so hard it tore. The smirk, the confidence, the smugness—it all crumbled. A cold knot of panic formed in his stomach.

But he couldn't admit that. He couldn't admit that she had actually left.

"It's a bluff," he muttered to himself, throwing the papers onto the desk. "It's just a bigger, more expensive bluff."

The hotel suite overlooked Central Park. The snow had stopped, leaving the city covered in a pristine white blanket.

Beverley stood by the window, a cup of tea in her hands. The warmth didn't reach her fingers.

Tessa sat on the couch, watching her friend with worried eyes. "Bev, are you sure about this? If you sign those papers, you get nothing. He wins."

Beverley turned around. "I don't want his money. I want out. And I want to find out who killed my son."

Her phone rang. It was her lawyer.

"He's not signing," the lawyer said. "His legal team is filing motions to delay. He's contesting the grounds."

Beverley nodded. "Execute Plan B."

She hung up and looked at Tessa. "He thinks it's a game. He thinks I'm bluffing. It's time to show him I'm not."

The next morning, the New York gossip columns lit up.

A photo was leaked to Page Six. It showed Beverley Vaughn, looking stunning in a black dress, sitting across from Zane Archer at Le Bernardin. They were leaning in close, smiling. Beverley had paid for the meal with cash—she didn't need Ellwood's cards to make a statement.

Zane Archer was the CEO of Archer Industries. He was ruthless, brilliant, and he hated Ellwood Stevenson more than anyone else on Wall Street.

The photo hit Ellwood's desk at 8:00 AM.

Ms. Reed stood back as her boss stared at the tablet. His face turned red. A vein throbbed in his forehead.

He grabbed the tablet and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall.

"She's sleeping with Archer?" he roared. "In public? While we're still married?"

Before Ms. Reed could answer, the phone rang. It was Ellwood's private lawyer.

"Sir, Mrs. Stevenson's lawyer just sent an email," the lawyer said, his voice tense. "If the divorce papers are not signed within twenty-four hours, they will release a package of photographs to the Times. Photographs of you and Ms. Frederick. Intimate photographs. Taken by a private investigator they've had following you for weeks."

Ellwood froze. The anger was replaced by a cold, calculating fear. She had evidence. She was threatening his reputation.

"Find her," Ellwood snarled into the phone. "Find her right now."

It didn't take long. Beverley had booked a private suite at The Core, the most exclusive, most discreet club in the city, under Tessa's name. She'd paid in cash.

It was a place where deals were made and secrets were kept. A place where a man taking his wife's rival would look very, very bad.

Ellwood drove there himself, his injured leg making the drive painful. He didn't call his security team. He didn't call the police. He was too angry, too humiliated, too desperate to regain control.

He limped past the valets, his cane striking the pavement. He marched to the front desk, where the manager tried to stop him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson, but this is a members-only—"

"Is it?" Ellwood cut in, his voice dangerously low as he slid his black Centurion card across the marble counter. "Make a path for me to Suite 4, or tomorrow morning I'll buy this club and your first order of business will be to clean out your desk."

The manager's face went pale. He swallowed hard and nodded to the security guards, who immediately stepped aside. He handed Ellwood a keycard.

Ellwood took the elevator to the VIP floor.

He limped down the hallway, his cane and his shoes clicking on the marble in uneven rhythm. He stopped in front of the door to Suite 4.

Inside the suite, Beverley sat across from Zane Archer. They were drinking scotch. There were no candles, no romantic music. Just a table covered in financial documents.

"You think this will work?" Zane asked, swirling his drink. "Stevenson is arrogant, but he's not stupid."

"He's arrogant," Beverley said, checking her watch. "That's enough. He thinks he owns me. He can't stand the idea of me being with someone else. Especially you."

Zane smirked. "Well, I'm happy to help. Taking down Stevenson's stock price is just a bonus."

A loud crash echoed through the room.

The heavy wooden door had been thrown open. It slammed against the wall, the hinges groaning.

Ellwood stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. His chest was heaving. His eyes were wild, burning with a mixture of rage and jealousy that he couldn't hide.

He looked at Zane. He looked at Beverley. His hands curled into fists at his sides.